Personal logs, delivery notes, survival warnings, music diaries, cleaning reports and official Eric Strudelhofen regulations from across the Space 2047 universe.
A regulation a day keeps democracy confused.
All spoons must be admired for at least three seconds before use.
Laughing without a permit is allowed only on alternate Wednesdays.
Citizens must salute small sandwiches because greatness often arrives in compact form.
A kiss can stop a war, start a war, or make Brian walk into a door.
Never kiss an alien until you know where its mouth officially begins.
Three planets have requested diplomatic training after Susan winked at their ambassadors.
Brian attempted charm. Medical bay recommends rest and fewer eyebrows.
Royal patience is infinite. Mine, sadly, is not.
Brian means well, which is often how trouble begins.
Citizens of space, please stop naming moons after lunch items.
I have reviewed Gerald’s latest song and declared it almost legal.
If a MAAM alien says dinner is served, clarify whether you are dinner.
Do not accept hugs from anything with more than two elbows and a bib.
Karen has negotiated a treaty based on snacks, distance and shouting.
The MAAM delegation greeted the crew warmly, then tried to season Cedric.
Music is the language of the universe, except on Tuesday when it is mostly feedback.
Played one chord so powerful the Communications Hub asked for a lie down.
My guitar picked up a distress call from a sandwich.
Invented a new genre called panic funk. Karen says it already existed whenever I enter a room.
If Brian says it is probably fine, put your helmet on.
Eric Strudelhofen has made breathing paperwork-adjacent. Avoid official buildings.
If the galaxy ends, I would like it recorded that I warned everyone first.
Crew evacuated in six seconds. Brian returned for his moustache comb and ruined the average.
If a crate screams, inventory it quickly and from a distance.
The cheese has started humming. Gertrude says this is unhygienic.
Found one moon, two spoons and a small legal department behind the emergency biscuits.
Parcel 9B walked away. It left a forwarding address and a rude drawing.
A successful delivery is one where nobody sues the moustache.
Delivered three crates of Space Cheese to Nouala. Eric immediately declared cheese a taxable emotion.
Parcel asked to speak to my manager. I promoted Cedric temporarily and hid behind the cargo bay.
My moustache was mistaken for a diplomatic flag by a traffic warden moon. Negotiations remain itchy.
Cleanliness is next to survivability.
Space Cheese residue resisted standard mop. Upgraded to heroic mop.
Sixteen teacups entered low orbit. Recovery net deployed.
Dust level reached 0.04%. Emergency mopping protocols activated.
